


A Whore's Comfort

by Florentium



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Caring, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Implied/Referenced Sex Work, Loneliness, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Power Dynamics, Seduction, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 03:51:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21403735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florentium/pseuds/Florentium
Summary: It is a lonely post as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, now as winter closes in and loyalties begin to divide. And Jon finds seldom comfort in anything these days, except in stealing a secretive glance at his beautiful steward, Satin.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Ygritte (past), Satin Flowers/Jon Snow
Comments: 5
Kudos: 164





	A Whore's Comfort

Satin is beautiful in ways Jon did not know a man could be. It is striking, his beauty, and Jon often finds himself gawking at his steward. Satin is pretty like a woman, with a soft jaw, high cheekbones, and large, doe-like eyes that seemed to gaze with quiet knowing. Dark hair hangs just past his ear in silky ringlets, unlike Jon's mop of boyish curls with its flyaway strands and occasional knots. Fine nails on each hand always neatly trimmed and clean and the boy's touch was soft like cream. Jon felt it when Satin helped him dress, fetched his sword, handed him the reins of his horse. His mouth is a luscious pink, always as if just bitten or cold. Though perhaps Satin is always cold, on the Wall. It is such a long way from Oldtown in the summer.

Dressed in leather and fur, Satin suits his station finely. His body had grown strong since arriving at Castle Black; his arms and shoulders had built up muscle and stamina. And he had grown a beard that he kept immaculately lined and trimmed short. It seems odd to Jon. He has never seen a northman maintain a beard such. Perhaps it is how men wear their beards in the south.

Though all the hardening and toughening could not hide Satin's beauty. Even nestled in a matted fur collar, with ash from a torch smudged on his face, nothing could mar the boy’s loveliness. Not even Castle Black.

He was not made for black leather doublets and iron ringmail, Jon decides. He was made for southern linens, colourful silk embroidery, gemstones dropping from his ear, in the hollow of his throat.

Jon tries to imagine Satin in a gauzy robe of dyed-rose linen, his milky throat adorned with jewels like a woman, and finds he must look away from him.

"Something the matter, Lord Commander?" asks Satin as he pours Jon's wine for his dinner.

"Nothing, Satin," he assures.

Satin smiles, sets down the earthenware flagon with a steady grace.

With shame, Jon rebukes himself. That was before, and whatever Satin was before he joined the Night's Watch, he is not that anymore. Now he is the shield that guards the realms of men, the watcher on the walls. He was Jon's brother, and Jon was his Lord Commander.

Still, he cannot help but to watch him as Satin scurries about his bedchamber, his solar. Carrying armfuls of linens to the launderers, running letters to the rookery, weaving expertly between the king's men who remained garrisoned at the castle. What a beauty, he is. Strong, clever, and as lovely as the summer sun.

Jon had not felt anything like that since Ygritte, nothing of the sort. Yet the more he saw of Satin, the more that fire was rekindled in him. 

It was sick, perhaps, but unwavering. A slick, hot, coil of desire in the pit of his chest, slithering around in his rib cage, poisoning his thoughts. How would Satin look, besotten and ravaged, long limbs tossed among cushions, panting heaving breaths in the cold air? Would he lay on his back, legs splayed eagerly? Or keen on his hands and knees like a dog? Or ride astride him like Ygritte often had, pinning him down by the shoulders and taking his pleasure happily?

Late at night, with only the stars in his window to witness his shame, Jon must take a hand to himself to be rid of the images enough to gain any sleep. But the thoughts always return. The boy is beautiful, and skilled. He must be skilled. And Jon wants him.

In the light of day, the shame of it nearly swallows Jon whole. How can he consider Satin this way? It is not his fault how he looks. He would be aghast if he knew how his Lord Commander leered at him, touched himself at night to the thought of him. It is an abuse of Jon's station, nothing less.

And Jon had fought for Satin. So many others had balked at the idea of a whore being made the Lord Commander's personal steward: the drunken old Septon Cellador and Lord Steward Bowen March chief among them. For days he was made to endure their objections. But Satin had proved himself in the battle for the Wall, staying by Jon's side when others had fled, saving lives with his bravery, and Jon had seen fit to reward him with a station of merit.

For Satin _is_ brave. It was not just that he is beautiful, Jon reasoned to himself. Satin is brave, and clever, quick to learn and more importantly eager to learn, curious about everything. Like Sam, he is, that way, Jon thinks. 

It had been after the battle for the Wall, after the arrival of King Stannis and his men, when Satin had asked to go north and take his vows in the weirwood grove. That had been when Jon first looked at him, was moved by him.

It is night, and Satin arrives to take away Jon's dinner that he has hardly touched. A plate of roast quail and turnips sits on his table barely disturbed since Satin brought it before nightfall. Jon has finished off the wine though; a childish habit he ought to grow out of, lest he end up like old Septon Cellador. But he could not bear to eat much. The fire in the hearth has burned low in his steward's absence, and Satin crosses the room to gather logs from the woodpile to replenish it. From the corner of his eye, Jon watches him, pretending to be occupied with the scattered papers upon his desk. Watches as he struggles to get the logs stacked properly. Watches his brow furrow in concentration. Satin never had to build a fire for warmth in the south and the knack of it is still lost on him.

At last managing to get the fire roaring, Satin rises and comes over to Jon's desk. "Lord Commander, you have hardly touched your supper. Are you feeling well? Should I send for something else from the kitchens?"

"No, Satin," grumbles Jon, "it's fine. Thank you."

"Lord Commander, you need your strength as much as any of us."

"I've no appetite this evening. Don't worry yourself over me."

"Is it not the duty of the Lord Commander's steward to worry over his Lord Commander?" Satin asks wryly.

"Aye, then," Jon returns with a smile, "worry all you like, I suppose. Gods know you are not the only disobedient wretch planning a mutiny in this castle."

Jon chuckles darkly at his own joke, but Satin's smile falls, that beautiful pout of his returning. With his jest failing, Jon awkwardly huffs and finishes the wine in his cup.

"Does something trouble you, Lord Commander?" Satin ventures after a moment.

"A hundred things, Satin." Jon sits back in his chair, elbows bent on the armrests. He runs a hand over his face.

"Might I aid you with any of them?"

Jon smiles kindly at Satin. "It's not steward's work, I'm afraid."

"Lord Commander, you forget, perhaps, that I was witness to your election. I know it for a fact that you were a steward before you were Lord Commander."

That does get a laugh from Jon. Satin seems pleased that it does.

He clears away Jon's meal, stokes the fire, refurnishes the woodpile. Night comes dark and frigid at the Wall. Beyond the torches in the yard, there is only blackness and starlight, glittering from behind the massive dark bulk of ice that blocks out half the sky. 

Jon abandons his work, too tired to continue. He comes to sit by the fire, seeking warmth. Red and orange flames surge and lap in the hearth, hypnotic in their dance. It is soothing, after the worries of the day had so ensnared his mind, to let all thought slip from him as he watches the fire burn. 

Satin kneels on the floor at Jon's knee. Lays a hand on the black leather of his sleeve. "Does my lord require anything more?"

"No, Satin."

"Then might I stay awhile? Help you dress for bed? The cold is bitter tonight."

"I will sit here for a time. The fire is pleasant. You may be dismissed, if you are tired."

"Do you wish for me to go?"

Jon watches the fire, lulled by its glow. "You are free to go if you wish. If it is company you are after, you'll find our brother's more lively companions. Drinking and playing dice in the hall, no doubt."

"I am not after their sort of company, my Lord Commander."

"You do not like dice, Satin?"

"It is the boors wielding them that I do not like."

Again, Jon chuckles. Satin does have a dry sort of humour for one so beautiful. He asks, "Then what sort of company is it that are you after?"

"Yours, my Lord Commander."

Turning to look at him, Jon registers their closeness for the first time. Satin gazes up at him with his large, searching eyes, the smooth skin of his face glowing in the firelight. Gorgeous, he is. It sends a bolt of terror shivering through Jon's stomach.

"I am poor company, Satin," he murmurs hurriedly. 

"Not at all." Smooth as water, Satin moves his gloved hand from Jon's arm and caresses Jon's cheek. "I can think of no other man I would rather be in the company of."

Not until that moment does it occur to Jon what Satin is doing.

Stiffening, Jon turns his head away, out of Satin's touch. He had not kept his lecherous thoughts well-guarded enough. Had made it obvious how much how much he desired his beautiful steward. And now, Satin offers himself like a prize, a token. Jon's leering has turned this proud, capable brother of the Night's Watch into a whore once again.

"Have I read you wrong?" asks Satin after a moment.

Jon closes his eyes, the warring within him threatening to tear him in two. "No."

"Then you may have me as you like, my Lord Commander." Satin's hand reaches for the fastenings of Jon's clothes. 

Jon stops him. "It wouldn't be right."

"And why wouldn't it?"

Despite himself, Jon's grip on Satin's wrist softens, fingers stroking the band of exposed skin between Satin's glove and his sleeve. "It would be a foul thing for me to do, Satin. You are my charge, my brother, my steward. I would sully the honour of my station, and all those who have held it before me. I would not subject you to it. You are not a whore any longer."

Satin recoils slightly at that. His handsome brow creases in a frown. He says, frigid, "And what do you know of whoredom, my Lord Commander?"

Perplexed at the reaction, Jon pauses. "I... I know you were a whore in Oldtown, before you came to us."

"And you imagine that because of that, I cannot want you?" Satin's voice is like molten gold when he says it, thick and warm and engulfing.

"I would be no better than any of them," Jon tries, helpless, "any of them who paid for you. I will not do it, Satin, no matter how I may want."

Standing them, Satin kisses Jon soundly, fiercely, trapping Jon's arm and his own between their bodies. Staggering, Jon is walked back to the stone-and-mortar wall, shoved up against it. Satin dominates the kiss, slipping a hand around the back of Jon's neck, levering his mouth open. The force of it, the softness, it makes Jon's head spin. Is this how he was with all those men? Or was he meek and shrinking with them, a perfect recipient of their desire?

With a last lap of his tongue, Satin at last pulls away. His cheeks are flushed, red and panting, and Jon's stomach plummets. He did that to Satin. _Him._ A hot spike of satisfaction lances up Jon's spine.

"You are a fool, my Lord Commander," pants Satin, warm breath puffing against Jon's face, "you are better than the lot of them, all of them together. _I_ want you, not because I was a whore, but in spite of being one. Not because it is my duty, but because it is my desire. I want you for your bravery, I want you for your command, I want you for your stubbornness. Let me have _you_, then, my Lord Commander, if you are so worried about having me."

A hand is run up Jon's thigh, over his hip, between his legs, and he moans out loud. It is all the affirmation Satin waits for before continuing his ministrations.

Satin's silken mouth presses hot and wet below Jon's ear. "Have you ever lain with another, my Lord Commander?"

"I have," Jon manages, barely a breath, his knees wobbling. "A — a wildling girl, beyond the Wall."

"Aye, the men do say," croons Satin, one hand carding through Jon's hair, the other cleverly working open the laces to his clothes. "And she was your only?"

"Yes."

"Pity. You ought to be shared, my Lord Commander, far and wide. While you are young and strong. Many would love to give pleasure to you. You do not know what great a gift it is, to be young and beautiful."

Despite it, Jon chuckles, more of a gasp. "And— and what good is beauty in a place like this?"

Satin pulls back, takes Jon's neck firmly in both hands, looks him in the eye. "It is a precious thing, here. It is rarer than gold, and perishes like dew in the morning. We shall grow old and die untouched, all of us, or die young of the cold, not to be missed or remembered by anyone. The idea nearly drove me mad when I was recruited. That I would waste away to nothing or be killed by a wildling spear and not a soul would mourn me."

That is not it, Jon wants to argue. There is more to it, they are the shields that—

"I don't care about the realm," Satin interrupts his thoughts, "I don't care about defending it. The world never cared anything for me. I want to enjoy what I have left before I must die alone and cold at the end of the world. I want to make it last. I want all those pleasures that they seemed to find in me. But you — Lord Commander, a man of your devotion, you commit yourself wholeheartedly to the Watch, to the wildlings, to the good of the realm. And it will destroy you," Satin pauses, laughing softly, "you will be old before your time."

Absurdly, considering their position, Jon's face flushes to hear Satin talk about him so. "It is my duty, nothing more."

"Everything more. What do men know of duty?"

Satin's mouth finds his own again and Jon cannot reply.

Ending the matter, Satin expertly slips his hand beneath Jon's doublet and strips it off, fingertips ghosting under the black woolen tunic beneath. Jon gasps into his mouth. The touch is warm, sweet as honey, and Jon's chest ripples beneath Satin's fingers. All of this, Jon thought lost to him, that he would never know again a lover's touch. That his dalliance with Ygritte was to serve as its own punishment, reminding him day and night of what he could not have. And now here is Satin, kind, beautiful Satin, asking for as much. It feels like a trap.

Recovering, Jon kisses him again. Kisses him sound and firm, holding his face in both hands. Worried that, somehow, Satin might slip from him, that he might regain his senses and send him away. Jon kisses him until they are both gasping, brows resting against each other.

Eyes shut, long, dark lashes fanning over his cheek, Satin whispers, "Take me to bed, Lord Commander."

Jon does. How could he refuse? He grips Satin by the arms, tosses him to the furs. There is no art to how Jon undresses him, not like Satin's masterful unlacing and careful disrobing. There is only fervent want as Jon rucks off Satin's cloak, his tunic, his leggings. From his back, Satin giggles and gasps at each touch, each garment removed revealing more of his milky skin, his strong back, his fine arms. Lowering his head, Jon mouths along the ridges of Satin's collarbones, down his chest, trying to recall what Ygritte had liked, what he himself liked, trying in a whirlwind to know immediately what Satin would like.

Satin finishes undressing him in turn, pulling the loose black tunic over Jon's head, tugging down his trousers and leggings. The chill night air hits Jon's bare skin like a shock, the skin of his arms and chest turning to gooseflesh. Satin must suffer it worse, born and raised in the south. There is a blush on his cheek, but perhaps not only from the cold. At least, Jon hopes not.

At last, now, with both of them bare and heaving, Jon lets himself look. Gawks, outright, at Satin's body reclining on wolf pelts. His slender throat, bobbing with each panting breath. Long, lean lines form his chest, his shoulders, wiry with toughness he had acquired from the Watch. Astonishingly, he is nearly hairless, like a boy, excepting a dark trail of hair below his navel, between his legs. 

Bending over him, Jon presses a bruising kiss to Satin's throat. He nibbles and sucks at the skin there, beneath his ear, hoping to leave a mark. From the furs, Satin groans, a girlish sound. Fingernails rake Jon's back.

He hopes Satin means it. Hopes that his touch is genuine and true. Hopes that no man in the south has ever been touched by Satin the same way for coin or wine.

Would Jon even be able to tell? If Satin were playing him false, would he even know it?

They break apart from another kiss and Satin throws his arms overhead, rolls his hips beneath Jon, inviting him further. Satin is hard beneath him, an alien sensation.

Jon suddenly feels very foolish.

"I — I've never..." Jon stumbles, still, even now, clinging to a shred of modesty, "I've not done this with — never with another —"

"Hush," Satin rescues him, "don't fret, my Lord Commander. I will show you how. Fetch me the lamp oil."

An odd request. Jon doesn't have to leave the bed for that. There is a glass vial of lantern oil on the windowsill next to the cold brass lantern. Jon places it into Satin's hand and awaits further instruction.

His docility amuses his steward, who unstoppers the vial and coats his fingers in slick oil. "They warned us that northerners were backwater brutes, warriors with hearts as frozen as your lands. But you northmen melt in bed, it would seem."

Blushing, Jon looks away. 

"Don't. Watch me," Satin implores, bringing his slick hand between his own spread legs.

It occurs to Jon, then, what he means to do. His mouth goes dry and the blush surely deepens. Something dangerous tugs below his navel.

Satin's beautiful mouth falls open as he breeches himself, hooded eyes sliding shut. The utter pleasure on his expression moves Jon, though he cannot imagine why. The idea of it does not seem enjoyable. Though Satin sighs happily, turns his face into the hoary furs as he writhes beneath Jon. 

And Jon is transfixed by the sight of him. His beautiful steward, eager for him in his own bed. Squirming on his own fingers, debauched and immodest, with his hair wild and a red blush creeping across his chest, up his neck. Jon lets Satin focus on his task, resists leaning down and biting the cords of Satin's throat. It is getting harder to be patient.

But Satin is done before long, draws his fingers out and taking hold of Jon's cock with his warm, slick hand. Startled, Jon yelps at the touch and thrusts forward. 

"Gods," curses Jon as Satin's hand guides him between his legs.

It's different than being with a woman, but Jon's body remembers. Remembers the drive, the seizing aching want and the frenzy of chasing. He presses inside Satin in a long, slow thrust. It draws a moan from his steward, nearly a wounded sound. 

At last, Jon thinks. It has been so long. Never thought he would know this again. For a moment he closes his eyes, grits his jaw, grapples with the raw sensation of the yielding body beneath him. Head swimming with the urge, Jon shifts forward, snatches both of Satin's wrists and pins them to the bed. Satin gasps, arching against the grip. He gazes up at Jon with a foggy look in his eye, helpless. 

There is something pleasant about having Satin captured, trapped beneath his weight. A willing prey. That is a mad thought. But it is like fire in Jon's mind and he rolls his hips into Satin's body, claiming him from the inside out.

The pace is steady, slow. It takes all he has for Jon to restrain himself, but he means to make this last. Satin's body yields to him, like the sea does to the shore, meeting each of Jon's thrusts with a little cry.

"Yes," whispers Satin as he surrenders to Jon's unrelenting pace.

Jon only growls in response.

Drawn by an overwhelming urgency, he drives inside over and over. The need is mounting inside of him and Jon is rapidly losing his control. That pulsing urge to _take_. To possess. To devour. It cannot be fought off, cannot be deterred, because the alternative is only hopelessness and terror, the deathly cold of winter, always has been, and so Jon succumbs to the compelling warmth of his own base wants. Chasing, chasing, his hips pick up the pace, faster, deeper.

Amongst the furs beneath him, Satin moans, tenses, struggles against Jon's grip. His hips rise to meet Jon's every thrust. Draws him deeper each time.

"_Yes_," Satin cries again, head thrown back.

His pretty steward takes it all so expertly.

To his shame, he won’t last. Jon is too raw, and it has been too long. His body is racing for the brink. The concerns of leadership burn away and Jon’s mind is purged blank and empty. All that is left of him is the hot pulsing corporal sensation of his own body. Of the body beneath his. And the breakdown of the boundary between them.

Jon collapses onto his elbows as he comes. A few final thrusts and his body flies over the brink. His back goes rigid, his thighs, his shoulders. Tense as a snare tripwire, Jon stills completely for a beat, two. Then, he unwinds, slumping against Satin, every fibre of his body going slack like water over a stone. Head dropping, Jon breathes hard by Satin’s ear, feels his own hot breath against his face.

They breathe together in silence for a time. Arms comes up around Jon’s back, stroking softly down his flanks, toying with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. Beautiful, kind Satin, soothing and caring for him even now.

His steward is a soft touch of silk in this place of ice and stone. How had Jon gone so long without his comfort?

Together on Jon’s bed, laid up in a tangled heap, they gather themselves a breath at a time. Eyes closed, Jon’s body feels as if it were drifting, buoyed up like seafoam on a gentle wave. The pounding aftershocks ebb and abate gradually, leaving him boneless and sated.

Against him, Satin shifts, chest rising and falling as his own breathing evens out. Eyes shut, head tipped back, he looks like a vision. His beautiful southern steward. Pretty like a girl, with a brave and kind heart.

And Jon had helped himself happily to his steward’s brave heart. Had barely put up a fight. Used him up like the whore he was.

With clarity comes a swell of shame. Jon runs a hand over his face, through his damp hair. They should not have done this. He feels a little ill. 

Content, Satin stretches and burrows further into Jon’s side, mindful of the mess on his stomach.

“Are you always so quiet afterwards, my Lord Commander?”

“Satin, please,” Jon protests feebly.

“Some men are so,” his steward returns mildly, “and you are a quiet sort of man, if you will pardon my saying so.” Satin slings an arm across Jon’s flanks, croons happily.

Jon swallows, discomfort mounting. He shifts against the warm body in his bed.

The fire has burnt low, died away to mere flickering embers, now, glowing red and fierce. The candle on Jon’s desk has nearly burned down to nothing. The chill in the room has grown more pronounced as the flames died and the shadows grew in, but Jon does not feel it. His body is blazing hot from the inside out, sweat combing through his hair, down his arms, slickening the backs of his knees. Beneath him, Satin’s body, nestled in furs, radiates as hot as any brazier. Jon lays on his side against Satin, turning his face to the ceiling to breathe some cooler night air, letting the sweat chill and prickle on his face and chest.

Satin’s face is turned into the wolfskins, half hidden between the furs and the fan of his hair trailing over his cheek and jaw. 

Beautiful, he is. Little wonder men paid for him.

From the furs, Satin cracks open an eye and peers up at Jon. His warm, dark gaze searches his Lord Commander’s face. A small smile plays over his mouth.

“Does something still trouble you, my lord?”

“We shouldn’t have done that.”

“Of course we should have.” Gently, Satin reaches for him, nudges Jon’s chin to face him. “Was it really so terrible?”

Jon turns away from his steward’s touch. “It is not a laughing matter.”

“I do not laugh.”

“Satin, _please_,” Jon curses, sitting up. 

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Jon’s bare feet touch the cold planks of the floor. The quieting wave of pleasure in his chest has retreated and there is a horrible sense of a grave mistake welling in its place. He covers his face in both hands, combs his fingers through his unbound hair.

In bed beside him, Satin reaches for something on the floor, wipes their collective mess from his stomach on a discarded rag. Jon swallows hard against the urge to gag. Twice now, he has betrayed his vow. And now as Lord Commander. With this beautiful boy he had wanted only to protect. 

If only his lord father could see him, now.

A hand alights upon his back, warm and soft like cream. Satin is slow, expecting, no doubt, to be shoved or struck for his boldness to dare touch his Lord Commander now that he has been used and dismissed. But his touch is such a comfort. How long has it been since Jon knew comfort?

Once sure he won’t be rebuffed, Satin scoots close against him. He rests his chin on Jon’s shoulder, strokes his hand down Jon’s arm, takes hold of his hand.

“Tomorrow, my lord,” the boy consoles. “If you must regret this, I beg you, regret it in the morning. Let us have the night to be content. If, on the morrow, your mind is unchanged, and you send me away, then I will go without complaint. I swear it. I’ll not breathe a word of it ever again. But please, grant us just one night. There will be a hundred others to spend cold and alone.”

For the first time, Jon is certain of Satin’s intent. This is no seducer, no crafty whore, just a frightened boy, alone and lost at the end of the world. Fearing the coming night, the coming winter, and finding solace as best he can. How could Jon deny him that?

“Stay, Satin.” Jon turns, rests his brow on the boy’s temple. “Until morning, at least. Stay with me ‘til morning. I’ll not send you away.”

Arms hold tight to him. “Of course, my Lord Commander.”


End file.
